DAVID COPPERFIELD by CHARLES DICKENS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED to the HON. Mr. and Mrs. RICHARD WATSON, of ROCKINGHAM, NORTHAMPT
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DAVID COPPERFIELD by CHARLES DICKENS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO THE HON. Mr. AND Mrs. RICHARD WATSON, OF ROCKINGHAM, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE. CONTENTS I. I Am Born II. I Observe III. I Have a Change IV. I Fall into Disgrace V. I Am Sent Away VI. I Enlarge My Circle of Acquaintance VII. My 'First Half' at Salem House VIII. My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon IX. I Have a Memorable Birthday X. I Become Neglected, and Am Provided For XI. I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don't Like It XII. Liking Life on My Own Account No Better, I Form a Great Resolution XIII. The Sequel of My Resolution XIV. My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me XV. I Make Another Beginning XVI. I Am a New Boy in More Senses Than One XVII. Somebody Turns Up XVIII. A Retrospect XIX. I Look About Me and Make a Discovery XX. Steerforth's Home XXI. Little Em'ly XXII. Some Old Scenes, and Some New People XXIII. I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession XXIV. My First Dissipation XXV. Good and Bad Angels XXVI. I Fall into Captivity XXVII. Tommy Traddles XXVIII. Mr. Micawber's Gauntlet XXIX. I Visit Steerforth at His Home, Again XXX. A Loss XXXI. A Greater Loss XXXII. The Beginning of a Long Journey XXXIII. Blissful XXXIV. My Aunt Astonishes Me XXXV. Depression XXXVI. Enthusiasm XXXVII. A Little Cold Water XXXVIII. A Dissolution of Partnership XXXIX. Wickfield and Heep XL. The Wanderer XLI. Dora's Aunts XLII. Mischief XLIII. Another Retrospect XLIV. Our Housekeeping XLV. Mr. Dick Fulfils My Aunt's Predictions XLVI. Intelligence XLVII. Martha XLVIII. Domestic XLIX. I Am Involved in Mystery L. Mr. Peggotty's Dream Comes True LI. The Beginning of a Longer Journey LII. I Assist at an Explosion LIII. Another Retrospect LIV. Mr. Micawber's Transactions LV. Tempest LVI. The New Wound, and the Old LVII. The Emigrants LVIII. Absence LIX. Return LX. Agnes LXI. I Am Shown Two Interesting Penitents LXII. A Light Shines on My Way LXIII. A Visitor LXIV. A Last Retrospect PREFACE TO 1850 EDITION I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this Book, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it, is so recent and strong; and my mind is so divided between pleasure and regret - pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions - that I am in danger of wearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidences, and private emotions. Besides which, all that I could say of the Story, to any purpose, I have endeavoured to say in it. It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years' imaginative task; or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever. Yet, I have nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still) that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I have believed it in the writing. Instead of looking back, therefore, I will look forward. I cannot close this Volume more agreeably to myself, than with a hopeful glance towards the time when I shall again put forth my two green leaves once a month, and with a faithful remembrance of the genial sun and showers that have fallen on these leaves of David Copperfield, and made me happy. London, October, 1850. PREFACE TO THE CHARLES DICKENS EDITION I REMARKED in the original Preface to this Book, that I did not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from it, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it was so recent and strong, and my mind was so divided between pleasure and regret - pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions - that I was in danger of wearying the reader with personal confidences and private emotions. Besides which, all that I could have said of the Story to any purpose, I had endeavoured to say in it. It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years' imaginative task; or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever. Yet, I had nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still), that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I believed it in the writing. So true are these avowals at the present day, that I can now only take the reader into one confidence more. Of all my books, I like this the best. It will be easily believed that I am a fond parent to every child of my fancy, and that no one can ever love that family as dearly as I love them. But, like many fond parents, I have in my heart of hearts a favourite child. And his name is DAVID COPPERFIELD. 1869 THE PERSONAL HISTORY AND EXPERIENCE OF DAVID COPPERFIELD THE YOUNGER CHAPTER 1 I AM BORN Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously. In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility of our becoming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards the small hours on a Friday night. I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it. I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don't know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss - for as to sherry, my poor dear mother's own sherry was in the market then - and ten years afterwards, the caul was put up in a raffle down in our part of the country, to fifty members at half-a-crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny short - as it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, to endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety-two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and others, who had the presumption to go 'meandering' about the world. It was in vain to represent to her that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection, 'Let us have no meandering.' Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my birth. I was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk, or 'there by', as they say in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father's eyes had closed upon the light of this world six months, when mine opened on it.